Normies Can Be Scary

Yesterday was my first and last day of jury duty. Beforehand, I had profound anxiety over the usual suspects, including the fear of 1) being inappropriately dressed, 2) getting lost, 3) getting dehydrated, 4) having to use restroom constantly 5) being restless and twitchy, and 6) seeming foolish in general or in specific. After all, there is nothing so ghastly in my mind as being obviously symptomatic or even slightly inappropriate in public, even while just doing one's civic duty with the mainstream of America. As one who has one foot in the bipolar fringe, the mainstream of America can be scary.

T. was kind enough to drop me off at the Hall of Justice, and so all that was required was the airport-esque security measures. I had to pull up my pants to show that I wasn't toting a knife. Then I got spewed into the Jurors Lounge, again, reminiscent of an airport, only much quieter. I took up residence at one of the few little round tables in the back, across from a young woman with a laptop. We were soon joined by two other women.

Over the course of the day, the four of us became "jury friends." To my left was the divorced mother of one, a charter school teacher now dating a Border Patrol agent, and across from me, an after school program administrator who moonlighted as a pet massage therapist, ran marathons in her spare time, and maintained a boyfriend in Orange County, and to my right, a graduate student in clinical psychiatry with attractive diamond facial piercings, single, with a cat named Carrie Bradshaw. In short: normies.

Two of the gals brought in some gossip and fashion magazines that became the centerpiece of the conversation. I was definitely the pop culture novice, and although I was responsible for the ice-breaking of the group in the first place, I began the slow spiritual retreat which so often accompanies the feeling that one is different. Yet I paged through "my" In Style magazine with feigned exuberance, until I found one advertisement that I genuinely found interesting. There was a nude model facing the viewer holding a ten foot long albino snake posed to cover her saucy bits. It was a fascinating photograph which I immediately shared with the group.

The girls recoiled in horror. Physically recoiled. Their responses resembled that of a cartoon. Conjecture ensued about how much money they would need to be paid to pose with said snake. The psychologist-to-be said she would need to be paid $500,000. The nudity part would not bother her, she said...and she paused ominously.

And this is a woman who is supposed to help people work on their inner selves and overcome their issues? My judgment reared its ugly head, and inwardly, I scoffed. I scoffed again.

In that moment, though, I realized that there are crucial difference between bizarre hangups like the fear of snakes, and the anxiety that is a manifestation of bipolar disorder, that is, fears that interrupt the daily acts of living. Once again, I became resentful of the illness. These other women seemed so...well-adjusted. After all, they didn't stress over getting here. All they are afraid of is a silly snake in a magazine.

After waiting, waiting, and waiting, the people waiting in the lounge were excused, so there was hooplah at our table as everyone packed their things. The pet massage therapist happily passed out her card. As she smiled her radiant smile, I realized that my feelings of alienation, about the whole day in general, had, as usual, been amplified and exaggerated. Nothing but positive things occurred. My feelings of anxiety were basically unfounded, and I emerged unscathed from the bureaucratic machine.

Not to mention, normies aren't so bad.

Dog & Pony Show No More

On Wednesday, I went to Barona Casino to speak for a crowd of their management and local law enforcement officers about what it is like to live with mental illness. There were four of us on a panel, representatives of NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness), and about 25 in the audience. The purpose of the training, like the many I have done in the community, was to raise awareness of mental illness and to humanize thinking about psychiatric disorders.

Basically, the panel was there to show that someone with mental illness can look like anybody.

Now, I have some funny stories of bipolar incidents under my belt. I have rubbed elbows with many sketchy people, had visions, been in car chases with cops, masqueraded as a federal agent to get into some guy's house, destroyed my piano, and much, much more. In short, I have stories that are very funny after the fact. I can always get a few laughs with my tales of mania. After all, mental illness, like any of the other tragedies of life, can be funny given the delivery.

So, it used to be in these trainings that I used my "material" to entertain rather than to educate. It was easier for me, I think, to make light of my experience rather than to actually relate it on a sober and thoughtful level.

When I made a decision to change my comedic style, I often said that I was developing scar tissue on my tongue for the amount of times I had to bite down. After all, being dead honest with people and admitting the seriousness of mental illness in my own life at first was just plain hard. Over time, though, as I kept at it, my courage built up, and I found that the experience of educating, rather than entertaining, was profoundly gratifying and appreciated.

I still crack the occasional joke when I am presenting, but I don't feel the need to put on a dog and pony show. I know that by being real, I don't have to get caught in the trap of having to perform all the time, and I can just let my experience speak for itself rather than dressing it up. It's a huge relief, as the Old Wendy would say, to "be boring," knowing that the audience doesn't need to be laughing. Instead, they're learning a little bit more compassion.

Cheers to that!

So Help Me God

Right next to me is the letter informing me that I need to report for jury duty this Friday.

I have already arranged my transportation with T., who is going to give me a ride to the courthouse early in the morning, as I have a profound fear of parking problems, particularly downtown. The preferred solution to the jury-duty-downtown-parking-issue would theoretically be to park at Horton Plaza--a nightmarish place to begin with, with parking levels distinguished by fruits and vegetables--but I just can't handle it. Once more, my phobias outweigh "common sense," and thus, I am getting a ride.

I'm semi-surprised that I even got a form to report to jury duty this year. Last year, I asked my therapist to write a letter with all the reasons I was unfit to serve. He took a page right out of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Psychiatric Disorders, Version IV, known simply as the DSM, and faxed it in. The letter contained a list of bipolar symptoms, so heinous that just one would have gotten me excused. I think "poor judgment" serves as an example.

But knowing the bureaucracy of our government, naturally, that letter never impacted me getting on the mailing list again.

Now, the question is: why am I going? Why not have my therapist send another letter?

For most, jury duty is simply an onerous civic duty. But for me, it makes me question the level of my disability. After all, now I can sit still; I can concentrate; I can evaluate in an unbiased manner. In the final analysis, what this means is that I can tolerate boredom just as much as the next person, so help me God. I won't claim that I'm normal, but for the purposes of jury duty, there's a chance that I might be normal enough. I won't know until I go.

Now, I have another pressing question...T., are you going to pick me up?

Bees Are Cool

Yesterday, B. and I went for a walk in the great outdoors. Back in the day, I was not a huge fan of the great outdoors, being more or less an indoor person. Trying to broaden my horizons, I was on a trail in a canyon which runs parallel to the 52 freeway, its name unknown to me.

The trail was amazing. The trees were majestic, the sky a brilliant blue, B. a perfect guide for this little foray, as he is a horticulturalist. My horizons were broadening with each passing moment.

B. and I had walked about 3/4 of the way when I observed a bee. The bee was hanging out on a yellow flower, quite bumbling and happy. I showed B., declaring with gusto, "I like bees. Bees are cool." I don't remember being quite so enthusiastic about bees before, but it seemed appropriate out there in the great outdoors.

B. concurred. He used to have 9 beehives that he tended back in the day. As we kept walking, B. showered me with bee factoids, including some of their behavior when protecting a queen. Then, they're not quite as bumbling and cool.

We walked for a few more minutes when a buzzing noise became noticeable. We walked a bit further, and I saw the cloud, hundreds and hundreds of bees swarming in front of us, with a gigantic cluster of them in the neighboring tree. I promptly did what any girl in fluffy, white, unused tennis shoes would do: cower behind B.

Standing stock still, there was nothing to do except wait patiently, as we were on the periphery of the swarm. B. seemed to be tuned into how dangerous the bees might be, and finally instructed me to move forward down the path. I moved, oh, how I moved, and neither B. nor I got stung.

I sighed with relief when it was over, and laughed with B. over our bee adventure, thankful that we got out of the frenzy without any stings. For an indoor girl like me, I was delighted to have an adventure in the great outdoors that turned out well.

On our way back to the car, I thought about what had happened. Our bee-swarm-survival-strategy just proved to me that sometimes making the right move is to not move at all, but to stay still and be patient. Only then, by practicing patience, can I dodge or deal with the obstacle at hand, especially in a foreign environment.

If I can learn that patience pays off, maybe bees really are that cool.

More Feet than Achilles

On Sunday, I was at Lestat's coffee house in Normal Heights, an eclectic neighborhood in San Diego, to meet a new friend, A.

Now, I had already had ample opportunity that morning to consume a pot of the excellent Starbucks coffee that we have in constant supply in our house, thanks to my honey, T., so between my bipolar meds and the caffeine, I was shaking like mad.

At Lestats' register, I opted out of another cup of coffee and ordered a Sierra Mist (not just for the caffeine-free component, but because it was a beverage I didn't think I would need two hands to drink.) when I saw an old friend, J. Now, J. and I had been out of touch by virtue of drama, so I conferred with A. about whether or not I should say hello. Being sensible, A. had no opinion whatsoever except to say that it was my choice.

I approached J.'s table, and my tremors, now a mixture of caffeine, meds, and a major case of the nerves, made me shake from head to toe, like I was naked in the cold in front of 1,000 people. Totally vulnerable, weird, and embarrassed, I made a comment about having too much coffee that morning, and J. simply said, "I guess so..."

In my experience with bipolar disorder, I am used to vulnerable, weird, and embarrassing situations, so I usually go out of my way to be opaque, normal, and appropriate.

In this situation, I know it is true that the tremor-inducing meds and the anxiety would put anyone in a tizzy, but that a pot of coffee, coupled with seeing J., ramped the whole situation up. I also know that the caffeine consumption arena of recovery is an Achilles heel (I have more feet than Achilles) because I will not be giving up coffee anytime soon, in spite of the occasional moment of awkwardness.

So why the stubbornness? Or why not just switch to decaf? Hmmm...

What can I say, at least for now, I will be keeping Starbucks in business. And I can also say that Lestat's is probably in my future as well. I guess J. overlooked my shakes and agreed to meet me for what else...coffee.

Farewell, Ladybug!

Yesterday, T. and I went on a gift hunt for R., recent graduate of SDSU. In spite of my misgivings that stationary has fallen out of fashion with the young fry, we went to Kensington, an upscale neighborhood in San Diego, to visit my favorite stationary store, Ladybug.

Now, Ladybug is no Papyrus. It is criss-crossed with art supplies, over-sized sheets of natural papers, an unlikely array of stuffed animals, and the kicker: Any stationary purchased the owner would hand-monogram free of charge. I loved it!

Once in Kensington, finding parking proved to be annoying. (It seems that wherever I want to go, everyone in San Diego has the same idea and has beaten me to the punch.) However, with the car half a mile away from our destination, T. and I had the opportunity to take a nice walk, detouring at Starbucks for a Venti Bold with added ice (T.) and a Venti Americano (me.) Coffee in hand, we proceeded at a leisurely pace to Ladybug, where I felt sure we would find something cute for R.

When we arrived at the store, I was aghast. The gate to the entryway was chained and padlocked.

In that moment, I thought of all the times I had prowled around the store in a state of paper-loving bliss, and I waxed nostalgic, thinking of all the precious gifts I had bought at that store. I even had a soft spot for the eccentric owner, who possessed a bizarre hybrid of characteristics, being ingratiating yet slightly abrasive at the same time, who I would never see again.

I put my feelings of loss aside as T. and I implemented Plan B and C, to go to a used bookstore in our neighborhood, and then head over to another well-loved gift shop for the final touches on R.'s present.

In the back of my mind, however, I thought about the places in our lives, having relative significance, that take up space in our personal landscape. Though the departure of a favorite stationary store may not seem worthy of a eulogy, at least it deserves a proper goodbye.

Farewell, Ladybug! I will miss you!

Stationary Can Be Dangerous

My friend's niece, R., a fabulous young woman, is graduating from college today, and I still need to buy her a gift. The fact that she doesn't wear earrings complicated matters, and my friend is buying her a necklace (can't be redundant). Now, I'm in the journal/stationary zone, both of which have the potential to be "dust gathering" gifts, especially in the days where almost no one puts pen to paper anymore.

Despite the risk of dust-gathering, I'm still leaning towards stationary, as R. will be studying abroad in Oxford, England, in a Shakespearean Theatre program. I assume that in England things have changed more slowly and that like me, people still value writing by hand.

In fact, it was just last night that I was getting razzed by T., my significant other, for having boxes of letters in our storage unit, at the cost of $65 a month. I argued that the storage unit was also filled with camping equipment (never used) and golf clubs (never, never used) and other T.-owned belongings. But it is true: a chunk of the items are indeed just boxes and boxes of letters, written by a number of my friends, one in particular a boy who studied at Oxford and is now a published writer and professor. I think the letters are brilliant.

Of course, I think all the letters in my possession are brilliant, jewels, in fact. Two of the writers have since passed away, and their letters serve to keep their voices fresh in my mind when I run across them. Some letters are written by girlhood friends that are like time capsules of the 80's, which remind me how things do and don't change.

After the dinner table conversation last night, I can predict that the pressure will be on to divest myself of my letters of friends or long-lost loves, but I can assure you that my precious documents will go nowhere.

After sober reflection, to be on the safe side, maybe I'll just buy R. some flowers.

CVS: Where Everybody Knows My Name

Although the line at CVS pharmacy is situated in order to protect patient confidentiality, there is still a degree of exposure for those picking up their medications.

As I stood waiting yesterday, I had nothing else to do but indulge in my idle curiosity. I checked out the guy in front of me, who I determined to be a "newbie." He seemed awkward and confused by the process and wanted additional information on his prescription. I think he was taking something like antibiotics. He had to be instructed to sign the yellow page in the binder with the medication's name, to verify that he received it.

Oh, how I envied this man!

After all, in the course of treatment of bipolar disorder, I, like all those in my shoes, have taken thousands of pills. In order to accomplish this feat, I have made hundreds of trips to the pharmacy. As my meds are not synchronized to be filled at the same time, I have to go in three or four times a month to keep myself stocked.

As a result, the staff at my pharmacy, CVS, know me by name. As I approached the counter, D., my favorite gal at CVS, immediately started rummaging through the medication area to pull out my meds. There was a medication omitted (another story), but she rectified the problem in less than five minutes. Then we did the beep of the bar codes, the swish of the card, the whoosh of the signatures, the click of the stapler, and the quicky review of the receipt. Debbie smiled, and I was out of there.

So if my transaction was so effortless and pleasant, why do I dread it so much?

It is because when I pick up prescriptions for psych meds, there is nowhere to hide. My disability is obvious.

If there is one place I shouldn't mind my disability being obvious, it should be at the pharmacy. Moreover, I know that I should be grateful that the medications work for me, after so much trial and error, and I know intellectually that without them, I would have no life to speak of. I am one of the lucky ones, and lucky a million times over.

But there is still ambivalence whenever I go to CVS, and I think it has to do with my resentment of the illness. Even at this late stage in the game, there is something inside me that wishes that it weren't true, that I wouldn't be the girl standing in line for mood stabilizers, that I could be that guy waiting for some penicillin instead.

I don't think these feelings are juvenile or immature. I think it's just one more reminder that acceptance is a daily struggle, but there are people in life, even the ones at the pharmacy, that do their level best to help me through with just a little bit more dignity.

After all, they know me by first and last name.

Good Advice Brings Love

This morning I got a call from my best friend, CJ, who lives in Pittsburgh, telling me that her little brother, M., proposed to his girlfriend last night. She said yes!

This was a welcome bit of news, as at the outset of their dating relationship, I prodded M. to make his move. He was somewhat gun shy at the outset, so in the role of older-less-conservative sister, I sent him text messages with advice such as, "Be the Cheetah to the Gazelle." My directive seems very juvenile now, but look where we are! It worked! This morning, I patted myself on the back for my small but crucial involvement in bringing the union about.

In fact, I have my own "sister" to credit with giving me some counsel at an important romantic crossroads in my life eight years ago.

My friend A., wise, beautiful, and full of life, is, like me, full of advice for herself and others. After a string of poor relationship choices, I asked A. to help me work on my "LIST." After almost no deliberation, she boiled it down to three things: He must 1) cook, 2) fix things, and 3) have life-long friends. At the time, this seemed a strange set of variables, but knowing A. and her infinite wisdom, I thought I would take her criteria out on the town and see what would happen.

One afternoon, I was having a pint at the local bar, Sparky's. I happened to be sitting next to a cute, conservatively-dressed redhead with an earring who looked about 30 or so. I struck up a conversation with him, and eventually asked him what he did for a living. "I fix *stuff*," he said, which turned out to be a euphemism for high tech surveillance cameras. Later on in the conversation, he told me a story about R., his friend "from 5th grade." I immediately followed up that anecdote with the question, "So, can you cook?" Not only can T. cook, he can cook like a pro.

To this day, I still wonder if A. is psychic. I also wonder what would have happened if I had just dismissed her input, thinking it the wild ravings of an ex-hippie. I also think about M., if that little bug in his ear might not have been, just how much farther down the line I would be hearing of his engagement.

Today it is in the arena of romance that I'm reminded to keep my ears open to the wisdom of others. Particularly as a person with bipolar disorder, whose ears have a tendency to close with the onset of symptoms, it is important to keep in touch with the support and guidance of others, whether I use the input or not.

It's My Pizza Party

My work at the community college tutoring center had an end-of-the-semester pizza party, and all the students and tutors lined up in our congested space to get their share of the pies, which were stacked two feet tall. My boss, serving with a plastic knife, made a Herculean effort not to touch any of the pieces with her fingers. Consequently, the line grew longer and longer and longer.

As I stood there waiting for my slice of pepperoni, my thoughts grew solemn. This celebration was not mine; it would mean the end of my tutoring job until the next semester. I had anticipated for this fact, but the groups of students cheerfully consuming their free lunch between finals made me feel out of action nonetheless, a feeling that is a frequent aspect of reality when living with bipolar disorder.

Finally my turn, I got a serving and then made my way slowly towards the door. En route, I ran into an old tutoring buddy of mine that I hadn't seen in ages. I stopped dead in my tracks, now grateful that the line was almost at a standstill.

It was my friend G. Warmly, we exchanged hellos and hugs. Making a quick assessment, I determined that G. looked his age, as I look mine, which is "Older Than The Students." He still had his cherubic cheeks, winsome smile, and teddybearish aspect that I remembered so well. I asked him about his life, and his eyes lit up when he talked about Math, a subject that leaves me cold.

Once G. joined me outside, he shared about two dozen wedding photos that he "just happened to have in his backpack." We talked a bit about the future. His was crowded with possibilities, teaching at SDSU, going for a PhD, or maybe teaching high school. He and his new bride were flourishing.

After our yackity-yack, G. gave me his card, which I stowed in my pocket, and I promised to call to get together over the summer for dinner.

We said our goodbyes, and I headed back into the tutoring center, looking at all the students and their earnest expressions. Everyone was hunkered down for more work as finals loomed ahead. I looked down at my name tag, which I wouldn't be wearing much longer, and wondered if the future loomed ahead or stretched out with possibilities. Some looming, some stretching, maybe?

I took G.'s card out of my pocket and took a look. It was a card for math tutoring, with a solid, respectable photograph in high gloss. I thought of my own card, pretty, semi-floral, no gloss.

Could it be that it's just a case of "To Each His Own"? There's no way on earth I would ever be a Calculus teacher, just as there is no way that G. would write haiku for kicks. There is no way to trade my life for someone else's, G.'s, the students, my boss, so I might as well quit trying and quit comparing. There are possibilities for my own productivity, as long as I keep my mind and heart open.

Although I know these things, and I've been told them over and over, the universe must keep reminding me.

In the end, it seems the pizza party was for me.

Wrong Turn Turns Out

Yesterday, I was on my way to Fashion Valley to meet up with a couple of friends at the California Pizza Kitchen. Indeed not every San Diegan was on their way to Fashion Valley, but a good number of them were, so the traffic getting into the mall was fierce, the congestion oppressive.

I was turning left into the mall and had made a strategic error, putting me in the "right-left-turn" lane instead of the "left-left-turn" lane. As I sat there at the light, I contemplated my utter lameness and clutched the wheel tightly, berating myself for doing what no self-respecting resident of San Diego could possibly do: *mess* up getting to Fashion Valley. Irritation at my stupidity hovering in my mind, I thought about how to wriggle into the left lane.

I had my plan in place when the light turned green. I was going to slink between the two cars next to me and prepare to make a bold left turn ahead. It is what anyone would have done, only they would not have had an anxiety attack doing it.

As I was making my turn, preparing to wriggle, the car next to me drove into the lane on the other side of the median, that is, into oncoming traffic. The car behind it, lemming-like, followed suit so there were now two vehicles driving the wrong way, with drivers trying to exit the mall coming headlong in their direction.

I sat at my stop sign in disbelief--in the correct lane--and watched the scene play out. The oncoming drivers weaved; some stopped; the drivers on my side stared. The drivers at fault, contrite and panicked, tried to negotiate past all of the hubbub to make their way out of the fray. Thankfully, everyone seemed to be paying attention, and no one got hurt.

Slightly stunned, I made it to CPK without further incident, wondering what all my fuss was about. After all, it should be plain to me that other people in life make mistakes and simply muddle through. Somehow, though, I think that that person shouldn't be me, that as this stage in my recovery from bipolar disorder I should have worked hard enough not to panic over the minute details of life, or have learned to take things in stride, or be able to let things go, or in short, be a perfectly enlightened human being. On the road, I should certainly know where I'm going and how to get there.

Of course, this is absolute hogwash. Everyone makes mistakes, and as evidenced by the wrong turns of my fellow San Diego drivers, sometimes no one gets hurt.

Golden Donut Another Day

Yesterday, I had designs on a relaxing walk to the local donut shop, eyes on the prize of a leisurely Sunday stroll with the reward of some piping hot java and some sticky carbs. Instant satisfaction.

What can I say? Life got in the way. Not only did I not don my fluffy shoes and get to the Golden Donut, but yesterday, my life went catawumpus. I got a frantic phone call from my friend who was in a pickle, and it was time for me to be there, and be there in force. It was a testimony to Forrest Gump's pithy motto: you never know what you're going to get.

It's a good reminder for those days recently when I've been trying to plan my entire future in one fell swoop, as if coming up with a grand plan for the rest of my life is going to give me *control* over what happens to me. Not that putting my best foot forward is without reward, but it's helpful for me to bear in mind that grand planning has its limitations, just as bipolar disorder, with its tempestuous trajectory, often casts its limitations over my life.

Is it necessary to know everything in advance? In fact, it's a relief not to. I'm reminded that although my hand may be on the tiller, I'm still subject to the will of the weather.

Maybe today, in addition to wearing my fluffy white shoes, I'll wear layers, and although I'll try for a repeat performance on that donut at some point, I'll remember that I'm no Boy Scout. I can't be prepared for everything.

One thing I can be sure of: Mystery Ahead!

Destination: Golden Donut

Today is my significant other, T's, 39th birthday. He is amusing himself by going on a run, almost a half marathon's distance, and he is doing this for fun, as well as for a sense of personal accomplishment.

I have trouble running down the block. In fact, in the category of general personal accomplishment, it's hard at times to take stock, lest I cringe. I am approaching 39 myself, creeping inexorably to the Big 40, where if your life is not together, it certainly *should* be on its merry way.

In other departments, career, education, money, it all seems like I'm developmentally delayed as a result of my bipolar illness, or poor decision making, which is sometimes the same thing.

I ask myself today and every day, when am I going to feel like it's OK to be where I'm at, to have this mental illness and still be a *happy* person? A *good* person? Isn't that what everyone wants?

Maybe just walking a few blocks is more my speed, and that's my personal best for the day. What I can do while T. is scaling Pershing Drive is to don my fluffy white tennis shoes, take a deep breath, step outside, and head to the Golden Donut for a piping hot coffee and an old fashioned. That's my kind of accomplishment!